


Coming Home

by gREat_unreST



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Fanart, Fluff, Inappropriate use of drowning imagery, Injury, M/M, but one thing for sure it's definitely gay, personally i feel like this can be read both ways, ホム新茶, 新茶ホム
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22628557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gREat_unreST/pseuds/gREat_unreST
Summary: After a year of undercover work in Europe, then a month in hospital, James Moriarty finally goes home. Chaldea SIU AU.(Chapter 1 is a drawing I made for this fic. Chapter 2 is the actual fic)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes | Ruler/James Moriarty | Archer
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "An ace detective, a veteran spy, and the watchdog leader. It's obvious who the 'spy' is. And you know what happens to spies who get caught..."

[[originally posted on twitter]](https://twitter.com/gREat_unreST/status/1192479236197515264)


	2. Chapter 2

London rolled by peacefully as the car drove through the streets. James Moriarty sat in the back, head turned towards the window. The city had not changed at all in the time he was away.

"I hope you don't mind," Holmes said from the driver's seat. 

Moriarty peered at him through the rear-view mirror. The younger man had his eyes on the road, sporting his usual impassive face. Moriarty had known him for years though. Working together at Chaldea S.I.U. lent many opportunities to observe each other's mannerisms. He could spot the subtle curl on Holmes’ mouth from a mile away.

Moriarty scowled. "Prefacing a request like that makes me less inclined to accept it."

Holmes did not appear to hear Moriarty's comment. "I took the liberty of cleaning up your flat and restocking supplies. Some of the dry food had to be binned."

The banter came easily. "You mean you broke into my flat and went through my belongings like the nosy detective you are?" 

"Hah! Have some faith in me, Moriarty."

He shot at the younger man an unimpressed look.

"Besides,” Holmes continued, “that was only a few times before Mycroft told me who you were actually working for."

 _Because you were a persistent meddler_ , Moriarty thought. Holmes smiled at him through the rear-view mirror as though he had read his mind. The older man scowled and turned away, forcing himself to breathe normally through the sudden tightness in his chest. His ribs were acting up again it seemed.

The car pulled up in front of an apartment block. Grabbing his crutches, Moriarty hobbled out of the car as gracefully as he could, took one look at the building and paused. He usually was not one for sentiment, but after nearly a year of undercover work in Europe, then one month bedbound, he could not deny that coming back to the place he lived in for the better half of a decade filled him with some measure of relief. The private hospital room, which he highly suspected to have the other Holmes brother to thank for, had felt like confinement by the end of the month. A year's worth of mathematics and astrophysics journals only occupied him for a week. He was glad to be out of there, back on his own two feet (technically one as his left leg was wrapped in cast) and on the path to recovery. Besides, that damned hospital room kept reminding him of—

He closed his eyes. _Cease with these thoughts_ , he berated himself. Shouldn't he have put them behind him by now?

The pavement was still wet from the morning drizzle, so Moriarty took care in navigating to the apartment block's entrance. Holmes parked the car and caught up easily, a duffel bag in each hand. Moriarty frowned. _Two bags?_ He recognised the bag that Holmes had when the younger man picked him up from the hospital. It had been carrying the clothes and shoes he was wearing now. The other bag must have been in the boot all along. From its size and curvature caused by the contents’ weight, it was obviously hiding more clothes. _Holmes'_ clothes, to be exact, as well as possibly his toiletries, laptop and case files, judging by the increasingly innocent look the detective was affecting. He heaved a mental sigh. He should have told Holmes to leave when the doctor was advising Moriarty on the details of home recovery. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself!

Evans, the porter, spotted them through the glass entrance and came forward to open the doors. He was a tall bald man in his fifties, a few years older than Moriarty. He had been working in this building long before Moriarty moved in and was highly efficient with no questions asked about the residents’ occasional peculiar activities or appearances. Moriarty had once walked in with bloody clothes, drenched in Thames water, and Evans had remained unflappable. This time, however, a small frown flitted across his face before it was smoothed away. Moriarty instantly knew his day was about to become worse.

“Sir,” Evans greeted warmly, “Glad to have you back.”

“Evans.” Moriarty nodded in thanks when the door was held open wider and passed through without problem. “What happened to the lift?”

The porter raised nary an eyebrow at the odd question, having grown used to Moriarty’s astute observations.

“It went out of service this morning. The technicians are currently looking into it.”

“It worked fine when I came over yesterday,” Holmes interjected.

There was an almost imperceptible furrow in his brow, which was his equivalent of a pout. Moriarty turned away to hide his smile. 

“If I had known you were coming back today, I would have called ahead,” Evans said apologetically.

The detective waved his hand. “No matter. I will carry him up.”

Moriarty's heart skipped a beat. He whipped his head around so fast his fringe fell loose from his ear.

“You will _not_!” he barked.

He could feel his cheeks starting to burn at the idea of being carried like a…like a… _Stop thinking about that_ , he yelled in his head. This reaction was ridiculous! Holmes was one of the few people who could wind him up like this without fail, and it had gotten worse ever since he remembered what happened _that night in the hospital_ —

His cheeks were fully red now. He would have run up the stairs if not for the cast. All he could do was grimace in determination and grip his crutches tighter. It was going to be a long climb.

Holmes sighed as he followed the older man up the stairs.

“Maybe I would have let you walk up eight flights of stairs if you only had a broken leg, but that is not the case.” He paused. The timing and duration of the silence told Moriarty that he would not appreciate the detective’s next few words.

“How are your ribs?”

 _Rubbing salt in into my wounds_. Moriarty gritted his teeth. “My ribs are fine.”

They were not fine. They were, in fact, protesting every time he leaned on the crutches to lever himself up one step. Sweat dotted his forehead and each shaky breath stabbed his chest. His ribs had not felt this bad in the car! Though to be fair, he _was_ doing the exact kind of strenuous exercise his doctor advised him against. Eight flights of stairs in this condition were becoming more daunting than expected. He knew Holmes was right, but damned if he was going to admit it!

He reached the first-floor landing and leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath without being too obvious. He could have sworn his eyes were closed for only a moment when suddenly his legs were pushed out from beneath him by a heavy weight. He definitely _did not_ yelp as he lost his balance and fell backwards, only to be caught by a pair of arms and scooped up entirely like he weighed nothing (he probably did; he had yet to regain even half of the weight he lost). The crutches slipped out of his grip and clattered to the ground. His arms shot out to wrap around the nearest object.

When the world stopped spinning, Moriarty found himself face to face with a grinning Holmes. The detective’s arms were hooked beneath his armpit and knees, while his own arms were wrapped tightly around Holmes’ neck. Holmes’ olive green eyes filled his vision. He looked down and found himself very close to a pair of lips. Too close.

The events of that night replayed in his mind.

Moriarty’s face exploded into tomato red. He let go of Holmes’ neck and tried to eject himself from the younger man’s arms, but he could hardly flail around when his ribs were sending warning stabs.

“Put me down, Holmes!” he shrieked, then promptly covered his mouth in shock of the unholy sound he had made.

Naturally, Holmes did not listen to him. 

"Hold on tight, Professor!" he laughed and started ascending two steps at a time.

Holmes only called him by his old title when he was feeling cheeky. Moriarty wanted to push that annoying—beaming—face out of sight, but when he felt his body tilt again as Holmes readjusted his hold, he instinctively clutched the nearest object to maintain balance, which happened to be Holmes’ lapels. Cheeks burning, he looked away and spotted what was lying at the bottom of the stairs.

“The c-crutches…”

At this point he was just stammering whatever came to mind, anything to keep himself from thinking about his current position.

“Don’t worry,” Holmes replied, “I’ll get them later.”

The detective climbed seven flights of stairs while carrying a grown, albeit underweight, man and two duffel bags with frightful ease. He let Moriarty unlock the front door and entered the flat. Fresh air and sunlight filled the living room. Holmes really did clean up the place.

“Where do you want me to put you?” he asked.

Moriarty replied with the first comfortable flat surface he saw. His voice sounded very far away to his own ears. He was deposited on the couch and Holmes left to get the crutches.

Silence draped over the living room.

Moriarty sat on the couch staring at his legs, heartbeat still hammering in his ears. He felt the peculiar urge to wrap his arms around himself. Just now was the closest he had been to Holmes since _that night_ —the first night he was taken off intubation and still woozy from drugs. He had woken up to the feeling of his hand enveloped in a cocoon of warmth. He wanted to open his eyes, but it felt like they were stuck together and could barely open a slit for a moment. It was enough to catch a glimpse of Holmes, hair unkempt with a few days stubble and tie loosened, sitting next to the hospital bed with his hands wrapped around Moriarty’s own. For a long time, the only sounds were the rhythmic beeping of the cardiac monitor and his slow, laboured breathing. Then there was a shuffling sound and suddenly he could feel a faint, shaky breath near his face. A hand caressed his cheek. And finally, lips brushed softly against his own. They disappeared as suddenly as they came. By the time he finally gathered the strength to open his eyes, Holmes was gone.

But the phantom sensation remained even until now. Moriarty unconsciously brushed fingertips against his lips, trying to recall the feeling.

“Something on your lips?”

Moriarty nearly jumped out of his skin. He quickly pulled his hand back.

“N-no!” he stuttered, mortified at being caught. When did Holmes return? How long had he been standing there while Moriarty was immersed in memories?

There was a pause while Holmes seemed to consider his next words carefully. It was slightly unsettling to see the young detective unsure of himself.

Finally, he said in a low voice, “Do you…remember that night?”

Moriarty froze. _Right to the heart of the matter._

Holmes wilted. “You do.”

“Why did you act like nothing happened after that?” Moriarty asked. He could not understand Holmes’ reaction at all. “I was waiting for you to… I started to doubt whether it actually happened…”

“…It didn't feel right.”

Moriarty stared back in dismay.

“No, no, no, that came out wrong,” Holmes hurriedly corrected. “Let me explain.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

“That night… It was the first time I was allowed to see you. I had thought I would never see you again, and it made me…impulsive. Later, I regretted it because you were unconscious, or at least I thought you were. I wanted to do it again when you were awake. And willing. But I couldn't find the chance to bring it up again. Or maybe I was afraid to…”

Holmes trailed off and looked down.

Words seemed to escape Moriarty. Memories filled his mind. How long had he and Holmes danced around each other? From enemies as detective and professor, to partners in Chaldea S.I.U., to friends as intellectual equals, and finally, to this unknown territory they had stumbled into. Ten years. Yagyū had been fed up with watching them make fools of themselves and made them swear they would talk about their— _feelings_ —after the last mission. Then a mole derailed the operation and Moriarty was captured. The rest was history.

When his captors broke his bones, peeled his nails, cut him, burnt him, drowned him, injected him with chemicals… The entire time, he told himself he would get through this, go home and tell Holmes how he really felt, insecurities, age gap and social customs be damned. Or at least die knowing that he did not let Holmes down.

Now was the time to talk.

Tentatively, he reached for Holmes’ hand and tugged him down onto the couch beside him. The younger man's head was still bowed.

“Look at me,” Moriarty said. No response. “Sherlock.”

Olive eyes slowly peeked up. 

“That night, I wanted to call you back. To see your face while you—you—” he faltered, heart galloping. “This time, will you…do it…properly…” His voice weakened until it was no more than a whisper.

Olive eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

He nodded, and slowly leant forward, eyes still locked with those olive greens.

Holmes met him halfway.

* * *

If he were to describe it, Moriarty would say it felt like drowning. Drowning in a sea of emotions that could not be named. For almost his entire life, he sat on his little island, observing the stars and calculating trajectories of celestial bodies. But that island had been slowly sinking into the sea after Holmes entered his life, until he was sitting neck deep in water. And finally, he took the plunge and found himself sinking comfortably into the depths.

Into his arms.

* * *

“I suppose I will move in now?”

“Were you even thinking of asking for my permission?”

“No.”

James whacked Sherlock’s arm with a throw pillow. Then he winced, holding his chest.

Sherlock laughed. He leaned in to steal a kiss, and James melted into it.

It was good to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Thank you for reading to the end. Chaldea SIU is my favourite AU in FGO. It's an AU where I can explore the possibility of Holmes and Moriarty working together. Also their outfits are very handsome and I love these boys very much. This fic was partly inspired by @moksutinn 's lovely HomuMori and Chaldea SIU comics. Go check out their twitter, it's amazing.
> 
> (I wanted to write an actual kiss scene, but nothing I did felt right. Drawing it would have probably been easier. This fic was supposed to be a comic after all XD)


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